


the potential to be a disaster

by lesbianryuko (ashisverymuchonfire)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Default Hawke (Dragon Age), Eventual Fenris/Hawke, Idiots in Love, M/M, Modern Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Modern Thedas, Mutual Pining, Past Anders/Hawke, Pining, i love my life, more tags will be added later probably, this fic is just. so much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 13:12:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16933872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashisverymuchonfire/pseuds/lesbianryuko
Summary: It’s Garrett Hawke’s junior year at Kirkwall University, and he has a feeling he’s going to get himself into alotof trouble. Isabela is a terrible influence, Merrill somehow keeps roping him into helping her with blood magic, and his roommate, Anders, has a secret pet cat that they have to hide from the RA. As if that’s not enough, Hawke also has a huge crush on a certain tattooed punk from Tevinter, and he has no idea whether or not the feeling is mutual. Oh—and Varric is writing a book about all of it.Maker help him.





	the potential to be a disaster

**Author's Note:**

> hello naughty children it's college AU time
> 
> i've had this in my head for a while now and since the prompt for Fenris Appreciation Month day 9 (today) is AUs, i figured it would be a good time to post the first chapter!!! AU is modern thedas with magic and elves and dwarves and stuff, not sure how in depth i'll go with it in-story tho (i have most of it fleshed out i just dont know how often this stuff will come up lol)
> 
> because of my own college stuff (finals week...hell.....) and the fact that im participating in the aforementioned FAM2k18 (and possibly Januanders next month as well) this probably won't start being updated SUPER regularly until after the holidays but i have So Much planned for it
> 
> also sorry i didnt add sebastian to the main Kirkwall Krew™ i dont have the exiled prince dlc and thus dont trust myself to write him in character but he's probably gonna have a silly little cameo at some point so!! also please note i love both anders and fenris so like....no discourse in the comments Blease this is just a good fun fic
> 
> also i made it so hawke still has the red stripe across his face but it's mabari kaddis bc he is very fereldan (this is mentioned later on in the chapter but i thought i'd mention it here just for. imagination purposes)
> 
> ALSO also i downloaded social dummy to create fake twitters, messages, etc. for this AU so i will have screenshots throughout the story as an extra little thing lol!!
> 
> oh - plus some real life music. just because. why not
> 
> ok uhhh i think thats all i have to say!!! enjoy!!! also follow me on tumblr @ cruelangelstheses and twitter @ lesbianryuko for more DA ramblings and stuff. lmao

 

On the first Friday of the fall semester, Garrett Hawke does what he always does on special occasions: He invites all his friends out for drinks at the Hanged Man.

Isabela is, predictably, the first one there, having already grabbed their usual eight-person table and downed at least two shots by the time Hawke arrives, at about half past six. “Oh, good, you’re here,” she says when she sees him, standing up with a glint of mischief in her eyes. “I thought I was going to be drinking alone.”

Hawke grins. “Oh, come on, Isabela,” he teases, “you know me better than that. You really think I’d invite you out for drinks just to abandon you?”

Isabela raises an eyebrow and pretends to think. “Well…”

Immediately, Hawke remembers the incident she’s referencing, and his face flushes. “That was _one_ time!”

“One time too many,” Isabela replies with a smirk, sitting back down in her seat.

Before Hawke has a chance to say anything else, he hears the sound of footsteps behind him and turns to see Anders and Fenris both walking quickly toward the table, pushing and elbowing each other out of the way. Fenris shoves Anders in front of him, and Anders stumbles, grabbing onto the back of a chair to balance himself. “How many shots has Isabela had so far?” he demands as though his life depends on it, shooting Fenris a withering look.

Hawke and Isabela exchange glances; she looks like she’s trying not to laugh. “Two,” they say in unison.

Anders groans loudly, and Fenris lets out a short, triumphant “ _Ha!_ ”

Hawke tries to suppress his own laughter, but mostly fails. “Anders, you have _got_ to stop betting against Fenris,” he says, sitting down across from Isabela. “You’ll be broke before midterms at this rate.”

“You say that as if I always lose,” Anders says indignantly as he pulls his wallet out of his pocket and reluctantly hands Fenris twenty silvers.

“You lose about four out of five times,” Fenris says matter-of-factly, sitting down on Hawke’s right side. “Those aren’t great odds.”

“What did you two bet, anyway?” Isabela asks, leaning back in her chair and resting her boot-clad feet on the table.

Anders sighs in defeat and grabs the seat next to Isabela, across from Fenris. “The usual. We tried to guess how many shots Isabela would already have had by the time we got here.”

“I bet two,” Fenris says with the slightest hint of a smirk. “Anders bet three.”

Isabela puts her hand against her chest in mock offense. “Ouch. Am I really that predictable?”

Hawke, Anders, and Fenris simultaneously say, “Yes.” Isabela stares at them all for a moment before laughing so hard she snorts.

It’s not long before Varric arrives with Merrill in tow, both lamenting at having missed the excitement. “I had some...professorly things to do,” Varric explains, “and Daisy insisted on waiting for me.”

“‘ _Professorly_ ,’” Fenris repeats with mild amusement. “You know, for someone who teaches grammar and writing, you sure do enjoy making up your own rules.”

Varric laughs a little as he takes the seat to Hawke’s left. “Elf, once you know how the rules work, you can break them all you want.”

“Can you, really?” Merrill asks, perking up from her spot across from Varric, on Isabela’s other side.

“Well, not _every_ rule,” Varric says. “And preferably not all at the same time.”

“Speaking of ‘professorly things,’” Hawke adds, glancing around the Hanged Man for any sign of the last member of their group, “where’s Aveline?”

“Maybe she’s not coming,” Anders suggests. “She probably has much more important things to do than babysit us, especially with the start of the new semester.”

Isabela smiles devilishly. “Oh, she’ll come.”

Hawke raises an eyebrow. There’s a story behind that phrase for sure. “Isabela, what did you do this time?”

Isabela raises her hands in surrender. “Hey, I didn’t actually _do_ anything. She just _thinks_ I’m doing something. Or...someone.”

As if on cue, a woman’s voice calls out, “ _Isabela!_ ” Then, sure enough, Aveline rounds the corner, slamming both her hands on one end of the table. “What has she been doing?” she demands.

Hawke shrugs. “Uh...drinking?”

Aveline eyes him with suspicion. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Hawke,” she says. “I just wouldn’t put it past you to cover for her.”

“So...you don’t trust me,” Hawke translates with a playful grin. “That’s fair. I wouldn’t trust me, either.”

Aveline seems to analyze her options for a moment, before turning to Fenris and looking him dead in the eye. “Fenris,” she says deliberately, “did Isabela sleep with the owner of the Hanged Man?”

Varric nearly chokes on his drink; Anders spits his out. Hawke and Merrill both try to hold in their laughter (and fail). Fenris simply raises his eyebrows, the only thing that indicates his surprise. “No,” he says slowly, “not that I am aware.”

Aveline sighs in relief and sits down at the head of the table, between Fenris and Anders. “I should’ve known you were just trying to trick me into joining you all.”

“You don’t trust Hawke’s word, but you trust Fenris’s?” Anders says incredulously, as he grabs a few napkins from the napkin holder in the center of the table to clean up the drink he spat out.

“I have given her no reason to distrust me,” Fenris replies defensively. He glances over at Hawke, a teasing gleam in his eyes. “Hawke, on the other hand…”

Hawke rubs the back of his neck and laughs sheepishly. “Guilty as charged.” He can feel a slight blush creeping onto his cheeks, but he tells himself that it’s just the alcohol, even though he’s only had half a beer.

“You know,” Aveline says to Isabela, “you didn’t have to trick me just to get me to come. You saw the chat. I was planning on coming anyway.”

“I just wanted to make sure,” Isabela says mischievously. “For our own good. I couldn’t risk you not being here. We need adult supervision.”

“Hey!” Varric says. “I’m an adult!”

“Aren’t we all adults, technically?” Merrill adds.

Isabela laughs a little. “Yes, Kitten, but let’s face it: Aveline is the only adult here who actually acts like an adult.”

Merrill giggles. “That’s true.”

For the first few rounds of drinks, Aveline tries to ask genuine questions about how everyone likes their classes so far. By the third or fourth round, though, they’ve all significantly loosened up, and none of them want to talk about college. Merrill tries to stay on topic, Maker bless her, but everyone else has just about given up. Now they’re just saying things like “I think my screenwriting professor smokes crack” (Isabela) and “I’m not saying I’d fuck my TA if I got the chance, but I absolutely would” (Anders).

“Wait, what?” Hawke says upon hearing the latter. “Who’s your TA?”

“Hawke, don’t get any ideas,” Aveline says in a firm tone. “Anders, don’t act on your ideas.”

“His name’s Karl Thekla,” Anders says to Hawke, ignoring Aveline, “and he’s gorgeous and I would very much enjoy kissing him.”

Hawke knows that Anders is drunk, and that he’ll probably regret saying anything come tomorrow, but Hawke can’t help the feeling of relief that settles over him. To hear Anders talking so enthusiastically about another potential lover (to  _Hawke_ , of all people)...it makes him wonder if maybe they can both finally forget about a certain event that happened last spring.

“Hey, I know him!” Merrill says suddenly, her eyes wide and bright with excitement. “He was a TA in my biology class last year, I think.” She nods. “I agree, he’s quite attractive. Actually, he kind of looks like Hawke a little bit, don’t you think?”

Anders narrows his eyes in confusion. Suddenly his face seems a lot redder than it did a moment ago. “What do you...?”

Merrill shrugs. “Well, I mean, he’s got dark hair, and a well-groomed beard, not to mention he’s a mage—”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Anders says pointedly, his head in his hands. “Actually, you guys keep talking. I’ll be right back.” With that, he gets up from his seat and disappears around the corner.

Merrill turns to look at Hawke, her eyebrows knitted together. “What was that about? What did I say this time?”

Hawke shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, Merrill. You didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” She frowns. “Was it another dirty thing?”

Hawke laughs a little. “Well, that’s...one way to put it, I suppose.”

Fenris, who had been having a separate conversation with Aveline, suddenly looks over at him, his eyes narrowing. He must’ve been listening in. “Hawke,” he says deliberately. “You didn’t.”

If Hawke’s face wasn’t heating up before, it certainly is now. It occurs to him that Varric and Isabela are the only other people who know about what happened with Anders. Perhaps he’d meant to tell Fenris at some point, but he never knew how to bring it up.

At Hawke’s silence and flushed face, Fenris’s eyes widen a little. He glances over at the empty seat where Anders was sitting, then back at Hawke. “You _did_.”

Isabela covers her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing. Varric chuckles knowingly. Aveline just sighs and says, “I _knew_ you two were acting strange.”

Merrill turns to Isabela. “I still don’t quite understand,” she says quietly. Isabela leans close to her and whispers something in her ear. Merrill says, “ _Oh!_ ”

Out of everyone sitting at the table, Hawke finds himself looking at Fenris again, gauging his reaction. Fenris keeps looking at Hawke and then looking away, until he settles for staring at his own hands resting on the table. “I...didn’t know,” he says slowly. “I apologize.” Then, without warning, he stands up and walks away, seeming to follow Anders’s lead as he rounds the corner and vanishes into the crowd of drunkards.

“Oh, no,” Merrill says with a sigh.

Hawke covers his face with his hand, embarrassed. “Yeah,” he says, “no kidding.”

—

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. Maker, you’re so fucking stupid._

No matter how much cold water Anders splashes in his face, he still doesn’t feel any better about returning to the table. The tension and awkwardness might just kill him. What is he supposed to say to Hawke? For that matter, how is he supposed to sleep in the same room as Hawke for two whole semesters? Maybe he’ll request a roommate change, move to a different residence hall. Then maybe he’ll transfer to a different college so he never has to see Hawke again. Who needs Kirkwall, anyway? He certainly doesn’t.

At this point, it occurs to Anders, in his intoxicated state of mind, that he’s probably overreacting. So he happens to find mages with dark, well-groomed beards attractive. Big deal. Lots of people have a type. It doesn’t mean anything, and logically, he really shouldn’t be embarrassed to be attracted to Karl just because of his history with Hawke.

And yet, here he is, alone in the men’s bathroom of the Hanged Man, bracing himself to go back out there and pretend like nothing happened.

Just when he thinks he’s finally ready to face Hawke again, he hears the sound of the door opening and footsteps behind him, followed by a familiar voice. “Anders.”

 _Of course._ Out of all the voices in the world, it had to be _that_ voice.

Anders turns around, leaning back against the sinks and crossing his arms in an effort to hide his surprise. “Fenris.”

For a moment, Fenris just stands a few feet away from him, looking him up and down, as if analyzing him. Anders suddenly feels inadequate, with his flushed face, messy hair, old t-shirt, ripped jeans, and sneakers that are bound to fall apart within the next month. Compared to Fenris—clad in his spiky leather jacket, black skinny jeans, mesh shirt, combat boots, hair styled so that his bangs fall into his eyes _just enough_ (Anders has seen him fixing it in the bathroom a few times, putting so much effort into making it look effortless)—well, compared to _that_ , he probably looks like a mess. He can almost see the wheels turning in Fenris’s head, as if he’s asking himself why in Andraste’s name Hawke would have sex with a man who often looks like he just crawled out of a sewer.

(Sometimes Anders asks himself the same question.)

Finally Fenris says, with less hostility than Anders was expecting (though it’s by no means friendly), “So. You and...Hawke.”

Anders shrugs. He doesn’t really care what Fenris thinks—if he disapproves of Hawke’s taste in men, that’s his problem (at least, that’s what Anders tells himself). “What about me and Hawke?”

Fenris sighs and leans his back against the wall. “I...suppose I should not be surprised.”

Anders rolls his eyes. “Surprised about what? Surprised that someone like me can actually get laid?”

Fenris just stares at him for a few moments, frowning. Anders doesn’t know if Fenris is frowning at him specifically or just at life in general; it’s hard to tell sometimes. “That’s not it.”

“Then what?” Anders asks, somewhat irritated. “Is it really so hard to believe that Hawke, a _mage_ , found me attractive enough to sleep with?”

“It’s not about you at all,” Fenris replies sharply. He runs a hand through his hair and lets his breath out slowly. Then he mutters, more to himself than to Anders, “I was a fool.”

Anders raises an eyebrow. Of all the things he predicted would come out of Fenris’s mouth, that definitely wasn’t one of them. A large part of him wants to make a sarcastic remark, but he holds his tongue this time.

When Fenris doesn’t say anything else, curiosity gets the best of Anders. “What are you talking about?”

Fenris doesn’t look at him; just stares straight ahead at something unseen. “I just...I thought…” Then he closes his eyes and shakes his head, folding his arms across his chest so that his posture matches Anders’s. “No. It doesn’t matter.”

It takes Anders a moment to put two and two together, and the realization almost feels like a punch to the gut. _Oh._

“You’re interested in him,” he says bluntly. Now he’s just about past the point of censoring himself.

Fenris glares at him, and for half a second, Anders wonders if he might be wrong. Then Fenris snaps, “I am _not_ ,” with such indignation that Anders almost laughs in spite of himself.

“Right,” he says. “Of course not. What a ridiculous accusation.”

Fenris scowls and takes a few steps forward until he’s mere inches away from Anders, looking him dead in the eye. “Fine. But you will not utter a word of this.”

Anders opens his mouth to say, _Or what?_ But then Fenris’s tattooed hands start to glow, and even though Anders knows it’s just a warning, he decides against testing his luck. Instead, he says, “You wouldn’t.”

After a moment of silence, Fenris nods, and Anders thinks he can see the tiniest ghost of a smirk on his often sullen face. “You’re right. I wouldn’t. Hawke would be devastated.” His tattoos return to their normal color, and he takes a few steps back.

“I could say the same thing about you,” Anders says.

“Hmph.” Fenris’s mouth twists back into a frown, but he seems to be actually considering Anders’s words. “Glad we can agree on something.”

Anders can’t help it; with an impish grin, he adds, “Like that we both want to make out with Hawke?”

Fenris groans and flips him off.

Before either of them can say anything else, the bathroom door opens, and Varric steps in. “Oh, praise Andraste!” he exclaims when he sees that neither one of them has killed the other yet. “You’re having a civil conversation! _That’s_ new.”

“‘Civil’ might be a stretch,” Anders says, “but you could say we’ve found something we can agree on.”

“Oh, _this_ I have to hear,” Varric says, raising his eyebrows.

“Later,” Fenris replies dismissively, pushing the door back open. He glances over his shoulder and locks eyes with Anders, a look that says, _Don’t say a word._ Then he steps out into the hallway and turns the corner, letting the door slam closed behind him.

Varric narrows his eyes, glancing from the door to Anders. “Problem, Blondie?”

Anders laughs a little. “That’s kind of a loaded question.”

“Fair enough,” Varric says. “You about ready to rejoin the party?”

Anders thinks for a moment. He’s not sure if his conversation with Fenris has made him more or less prepared to face Hawke. Finally, he says, “That depends. How wasted will you let me get?”

Varric chuckles and puts a hand on Anders’s arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I’ll stop you when you’ve had enough.”

—

Fenris tries not to think about Hawke with Anders—tries not to think about Hawke kissing him, or touching him, or tangling his fingers in that messy blond hair. (He tries...and fails miserably.)

Fenris isn’t stupid. He knows that Hawke occasionally engages in casual sex (and is certainly handsome enough to attract plenty of willing participants). Fenris also knows that Anders has had a crush on Hawke for almost a year now—he’s not exactly subtle about it. So, really, it should come as no surprise to find out that Hawke and Anders hooked up at some point. In fact, Fenris should’ve _expected_ it. Perhaps all of this is his own fault, for being so naive.

It hits him harder, picturing Hawke sleeping with someone that they both know well. It’s different from hearing Hawke mention having sex with a stranger—it cuts deeper. When Hawke hooks up with a random man at a club, they both know that they’ll probably never see each other again, and that they’ll just get on with their lives afterward. It isn’t personal. But with Anders, everything is personal, even when it isn’t. Even if Hawke says it was just a one-night stand, it’s clear that Anders doesn’t see it that way—or, at least, he doesn’t _want_ to see it that way.

When Fenris returns to the table, he finds Hawke and Aveline sitting across from each other, embroiled in an arm wrestling match, with Merrill and Isabela both watching intently. He can’t help but raise an eyebrow in amusement. Aveline usually wins, but Hawke’s strength is impressive (especially for a mage), so he at least presents her with a decent challenge.

“Again?” Fenris asks nonchalantly. His voice seems to startle Hawke, who flinches, and Aveline slams his hand down on the table.

“ _Fenriiiiis_ ,” Hawke whines, a fake pout on his face. “Do you enjoy causing me pain?”

“Never,” Fenris replies, and though he says it lightheartedly, he genuinely means it.

Something must give his sincerity away—a glint in his eyes, maybe, or an undertone to his voice—because for a moment, the whole table is quiet as his acquaintances stare at him. Awkwardly, he clears his throat and sits back down next to Hawke. “At any rate,” he continues, “it’s your own fault for challenging Aveline to another match.”

“How do you know _she_ didn’t challenge _me_?” Hawke says indignantly, pulling his hand out from underneath Aveline’s and rubbing it tenderly.

“She is the reigning champion,” Fenris says. “She has no need to risk her title unless someone else challenges her for it.”

Hawke shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Damn, Fenris, you haven’t taken my side once tonight!” he says, taking a sip of his drink. “I’m starting to think you don’t like me anymore.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” a voice says from behind them. Fenris glances over his shoulder to see Anders returning to the table with Varric a few steps behind him. He locks eyes with Fenris, who glares at him in return, a look that he hopes clearly communicates his thoughts: _Shut. Your. Mouth._

“No, you’re right, Hawke,” Fenris says sarcastically, in order to diffuse the situation. “I actually hate you. That is why I choose to spend much of my free time with you.”

Hawke almost smirks. “Oh, I see,” he says, playing along. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, huh?”

“Of course,” Fenris agrees, smiling despite himself. “Why do you think I requested to be in the same suite as you and Anders? You mages must always be supervised.”

“Damn it,” Hawke says, pretending to be disappointed. “And here I thought it was because you actually enjoyed my company.”

Fenris laughs a little. He can feel his face heating up slightly, so he takes a swig of his drink and prays that Hawke doesn’t think anything of the pink in his cheeks.

The rest of the evening plays out like it always does, for the most part: they drink, tell stories, tease each other, and play a few rounds of Wicked Grace. Then, once the sun has completely disappeared over the horizon, a somewhat drunk Hawke announces that he’s going to head over to the dance floor, and invites everyone else to come with him. Merrill and Isabela jump up immediately, and so does Varric, even though he usually just stands on the sidelines and observes the rest of the crowd. Anders—who seems to be drinking a bit more than he usually does—hesitates, but one “ _Pleeeease_?” from Hawke is enough to convince him. Aveline declines the offer, and Fenris takes the opportunity to decline as well, even though he’s not necessarily opposed to the idea.

So they watch from afar as Isabela teaches Merrill some dance moves, as Hawke pulls Varric in for one ridiculous dance, as Hawke and Anders practically trip and fall over each other. Hawke accidentally elbows Anders in the face, Anders steps on Hawke’s toes more than once, and at one point Anders really does fall into Hawke’s arms, both of their chests heaving with laughter. Fenris tries to ignore the twinge of jealousy in his stomach.

As if reading his mind, Hawke half-saunters, half-stumbles back to the table, a grin on his face and sweat rolling down his temples. “You two are really missing out,” he says breathlessly. The mabari kaddis that he paints across his nose every morning has mostly sweated off at this point, and his white Kirkwall University t-shirt seems to stick to his back. “Sure you don’t want to join us?”

“I’ll pass,” Aveline says, smiling fondly. “But thank you, Hawke.”

“Suit yourself.” He glances over at Fenris and raises an eyebrow expectantly. “Fenris?”

Fenris shrugs, his right hand reaching up to play with one of his ear piercings. Most of them are studs, and he has a habit of spinning them with his fingers when he’s nervous or embarrassed. “I don’t know, Hawke,” he says, racking his brain for an excuse. “It’s...a bit hot in here.”

“That’s probably because you’re wearing a leather jacket,” Hawke points out with a teasing but good-natured smile. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

Fenris isn’t sure how to object, but if he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t really want to. He _wants_ to be close to Hawke, to laugh with him, to trip and fall into his arms like it’s nothing. So he stands up and takes off his leather jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair. Then he follows Hawke onto the dance floor.

Isabela waggles her eyebrows when she sees him. “I never thought I’d say it,” she says with a grin, “but Fenris is showing more skin than I am today.”

Fenris lets out a small laugh. She’s not wrong—he’s wearing a short-sleeved, black mesh shirt that leaves nothing on the top half of his body to the imagination. In a way, it makes Isabela’s outfit—ripped jean shorts and a crop top that says “BITCH” across the front—seem relatively tame by comparison. He may not _like_ his markings, necessarily, but sometimes he gets a thrill out of the way others react to seeing them.

Hawke looks Fenris up and down, then flashes him a lopsided grin. “I like it. It’s...defiant.”

“I...thank you,” Fenris says, dumbfounded. Hawke complimenting him on the shirt at all was more than he expected, let alone immediately pinpointing his exact reason for wearing it—and all while fairly drunk.

“Oh-ho!” Varric says as he comes up behind them. “The Tevinter elf is on the dance floor! Today is just _full_ of milestones, isn’t it?”

Fenris rolls his eyes, though truthfully, he’s not too bothered by Varric’s teasing. “I have been on dance floors before, dwarf.”

“Really? Could’ve fooled me,” Varric says. “Answer me this, though, elf: have you ever _danced_ on a dance floor?”

“I...probably,” Fenris replies defensively, despite not being able to think of any specific examples.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” Hawke interjects with a grin, taking Fenris’s slender, tattooed hand in his larger, hairier one. Fenris starts a little at the touch, an automatic reflex. Hawke’s eyes widen, and he immediately pulls away. “Oh! Sorry! I should’ve asked first!”

Fenris never really knows how to feel when someone apologizes for touching him. On the one hand, he hates the way people tiptoe around him like he’s made of glass, so it usually irks him. On the other, he generally doesn’t like to be touched, and perhaps he _would_ prefer to be asked beforehand. In Hawke’s case, he just can’t find it in him to be annoyed. (Besides, Hawke is drunk, and Fenris is more willing to give him a pass for doing stupid things when he’s drunk.)

“So,” he says slowly, “what do we do now, Hawke?”

“We dance,” Hawke says, as if it’s obvious. Perhaps it is. They _are_ on a dance floor, after all.

“I...am not sure that I know how,” Fenris says, eyeing Isabela, who clearly _does_ know how. “I don’t know many dances.”

Hawke laughs as if Fenris has just said something incredibly funny. “It’s not like we’ll be doing the tango, Fenris,” he says warmly. “Just...I don’t know. Don’t think about it too much. Move with the music. Do what your body tells you to do.”

“You mean, make a fool out of myself?” Fenris translates, skeptically raising an eyebrow.

Hawke gives him that lopsided grin again. “Exactly!”

Fenris shakes his head, unsure whether to laugh or groan. He’s not usually the self-conscious type—that much should be obvious just from the way he dresses. He generally doesn’t care what others think of him, be they strangers or friends. He wishes he could say that he doesn’t want to dance because he just doesn’t _like_ dancing, but that’s not entirely true. Less than ten minutes ago, he was _jealous_ of Anders for being able to dance with Hawke. Now he has his chance, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Here,” Hawke says, holding out his hand. “I’ll help you.”

Fenris stares at him curiously for a quick moment before obliging. It’s not bad, actually, the feeling of Hawke’s warm hand in his. Without warning, Hawke pulls him forward, and Fenris stumbles, landing ungracefully in Hawke’s arms. “I— _Hawke_ ,” he sputters, glancing down at his feet to avoid looking Hawke in the eye.

“Yes?” Hawke says, feigning innocence. Fenris doesn’t need to look at him to know that he’s got that mischievous smirk on his face.

Fenris pushes himself against Hawke’s chest and stands up straight. “You are quite drunk,” he comments.

“That’s true,” Hawke agrees. He reaches out to grab Fenris’s hand again, taking a few steps forward, but he’s not perfectly steady on his feet, so he accidentally elbows a stranger in the side. Fenris suppresses a laugh as Hawke apologizes profusely, his words slurring a little.

Hawke takes another step closer and opens his mouth to say something, but then he narrows his eyes and tilts his head, as if listening. In the same moment, Fenris hears it: the opening chords of a little song called “I Love Rock ‘N Roll.”

Hawke’s face lights up. “A song you don’t hate! Perfect!”

“Hawke, I—” Fenris starts, but Hawke has already stopped listening and is instead shaking his hips and clapping along with the beat, and within a few seconds, a considerably drunk Anders joins him. Maybe it’s just the alcohol finally kicking in, but something about the situation makes Fenris think, _Fuck it._ It’s probably just because he likes Joan Jett, and it’s most certainly not because he likes Hawke.

Most of the people on the dance floor—and probably throughout the whole bar—have joined in the clapping, so that part Fenris has no problem with. At the famous guitar riff, Hawke and Anders both sing along in horribly high-pitched voices (Hawke because he’s Hawke, and Anders because he’s drunk). Fenris starts mouthing the lyrics to himself and tries not to smile when he hears Hawke singing the pre-chorus. Hawke glances over and smiles right back at him.

Then Fenris surprises himself. When the chorus rolls around, he finds he’s not just mouthing the words anymore; he’s singing them like they’ve been waiting to burst from inside him, and when Hawke dances over to his side, Fenris can’t help but imitate the way Hawke swings his hips and claps his hands in the air. A few feet away, Merrill gasps, “Oh, that’s so cute!”

Fenris thanks the Maker that it’s so dark on the dance floor so Hawke can’t see him blush.

One by one, his inhibitions fall away. Later he’ll probably make an excuse—like that the song is just so _catchy_ , or that he wanted to please Hawke, or that he wanted to prove to Varric that he’s not too “angsty” to dance, and nobody should read anything into it—but for now, he’s just going to enjoy the feeling of his body moving with the music, with Hawke. By the end, they’re belting the lyrics at each other, dancing around each other, pumping their fists in the air, stupid drunken grins on their faces. When the song is over, Hawke leans forward and laughs heartily, the giggles rippling out of him like a barrage of ocean waves.

“Did I see this correctly?” a voice asks, and Fenris looks up to see Aveline on the dance floor, her arms crossed and her eyebrow raised in a mixture of confusion and fondness. “Fenris actually _danced_?”

Fenris waves a hand at her and rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “Yes, yes. Tease me all you want.”

“A song actually came on that Fenris likes,” Merrill says excitedly. “I still can’t believe it. Was it fate? Divine intervention?”

“Actually,” Varric’s voice says as he makes his way toward the group, “it was just a dwarf. Sorry to disappoint you, Daisy.”

Isabela laughs a little and shakes her head in amusement. “You requested the song, didn’t you?”

Varric shrugs. “What can I say? I know the elf’s taste, and I could see that Hawke’s efforts at getting him to dance weren’t going so well.”

“Why am _I_ the spectacle of the evening?” Fenris interjects. He gestures to Anders, who is standing directly behind Hawke and very casually resting his head on Hawke’s shoulder. “Anders is more intoxicated than I’ve ever seen him.”

“Yes, but he’s just doing things we’ve all seen him do before,” Varric says. “We’ve all seen him dance, and we’ve all seen him pine after Hawke. He’s not bringing anything new to the table.”

At that, Anders sighs and buries his face into Hawke’s shoulder, as if to hide. Hawke’s face turns bright red, but he doesn’t push Anders away. (Fenris resists the urge to push Anders away for him.)

“Well,” Aveline says, “now that I’ve witnessed Fenris dancing, I know I’ve seen everything.” She gestures vaguely in the direction of the front door. “I should be going. It was good to see you all again.”

“Bye, Aveline!” Hawke says loudly, launching himself forward to give Aveline a hug (Aveline stiffens up but accepts it with an embarrassed smile). At the absence of Hawke’s body, Anders stumbles forward, catching himself when he’s only inches away from crashing into Fenris (an incident that probably would’ve ended in homicide).

“You know, Hawke,” Varric says, eyeing Anders, “it might be a good idea to take Blondie home.”

Hawke and Anders groan simultaneously, like children who have just been told that it’s bedtime. Fenris turns to Varric and says, “It looks like responsibility falls to me once again.”

Varric snorts. “Good luck, elf.”

With that, the rest of the group disperses. Most of them just walked to the Hanged Man, since it’s only a few blocks away from campus. Usually, that’s convenient. Tonight, though, it means that Fenris is going to have to walk two drunk, stumbling college juniors back to the dorm.

This is going to be a very interesting year.


End file.
